Chapter 107: The List (27)
The cafeteria at midnight was nothing like its daytime self.
Gone were the clattering trays, the chatter of hundreds of students half-awake and half-alive, and the gleam of sunlight across polished floors.
Instead, the room had taken on a softer, almost secretive charm, like a hidden tavern tucked away from the world.
The oil lamps burned low, their orange glow shimmering across damp cloaks hung by the door.
The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked wool, warm bread, and simmering broth.
Students, perhaps two dozen at most, sat huddled close to one another, wrapped in thick robes and shawls to fight the bite of the cold that crept in through the stone walls.
Their laughter came in quiet bursts, hushed but genuine, the sort of laughter shared between people who shouldn’t be awake but are grateful to find others who aren’t either.
Books and parchment lay scattered across the long wooden tables, held open by mugs that released tendrils of steam into the dim air.
A few students scribbled notes by candlelight, eyes bleary but determined, while others stared vacantly into their cups as though hoping for inspiration or perhaps divine intervention to rise from the bottom of their drink.
Lucien paused for a moment at the doorway, taking it all in.
The storm outside still roared, but in here, the world seemed insulated by warmth and the murmur of quiet conversation.
He made his way toward the food counter.
The selection was sparse but comforting, practical meals designed less for delight and more for survival.
Three types of bread sat in woven baskets: one crusty and golden, another dark and dense with grains, and a third thin and chewy, almost translucent, glistening faintly from the brush of oil.
Beside them were trays of aged meats, thin cuts of something smoked, with edges darkened and glistening from their cure.
The smell was sharp and salty, like something that had spent days hung above a fire.
There were also jars of pickled vegetables: cucumbers, carrots, onions, even some strange purple roots that looked suspiciously unnatural.
They sat glimmering in vinegar under the lamplight.
A few pots simmered at the end of the counter, releasing curls of steam that smelled earthy and faintly spicy.
Lucien assumed it was some sort of tea, judging from the cups stacked beside them.
He filled one, took a tentative sip, and blinked in surprise.
It wasn’t tea at all.
It was soup.
A light, savory broth, warm and peppery, with the faint taste of herbs and bone.
Lucien stared down at his cup, then took another sip, this time slower.
The heat ran down his throat and pooled in his chest, thawing the chill that had followed him in from the hallway.
“Not bad,” he muttered under his breath.
He gathered a modest portion of bread, a few strips of meat, and a small heap of the colorful pickled mix before finding an empty table near the far wall.
The wood was old, scarred with knife marks and initials of generations long gone. It creaked faintly when he sat.
The first bite of bread was tough but satisfying, the kind that made your jaw work for its reward.
He paired it with the meat, a smoky, salty tang filling his mouth, and chased it with a sip of that strange earthy soup.
For the first time in days, he felt… content.
No duels, no hallucinating classmates, no surprise “volunteer” procedures with bones snapping into place.
Just food, warmth, and the gentle hum of life around him.
He leaned back, half-drowsy from the heat, and let his ears wander.
Conversations floated from nearby tables, snippets of life and study.
“Did you manage to catch Professor Calwen’s night lecture?”
One voice whispered, a young man with ink stains on his cuffs.
“Barely,” came the tired reply of the girl across from him.
“I think my brain stopped working halfway through the equations. I didn’t even know Night Classes existed until this week.”
Lucien perked up immediately, spoon halfway to his mouth.
‘Night classes?’
Another student chimed in, yawning.
“I don’t know, maybe it's just me but don't you think the night teachers are…”
Synchronous sighs could be heard from all on the neighbouring bench.
“I suppose it comes with the night classes territory… You need to have passion to be willing to tussle with…”
“Just say it as it is,” one of the voices spoke with thinly veiled frustration,”they are a little crazy.”
“Professor Calwen’s is rather sweet though.”
One of the boys countered.
“Sugary madness is still madness. Besides, I suppose the subjects are to blame too. Heavens, I hope we don’t end up like them too…”
“...Let's just eat our bread.”
Lucien’s mind began to turn, the gears clicking together in silent calculation.
He didn’t even realize he’d stopped eating.
The chatter at the next table continued, oblivious to the strategic storm brewing in his head.
“Yeah,” another student was saying, “the Healing Arts building keeps lights on until two in the morning sometimes. You can see them from the west courtyard. And the metallurgy students do their metal work most nights till dawn too.”
Lucien leaned back in his seat, a grin spreading across his face.
The kind of grin that promised plans.
‘Perfect. Night classes. Fewer students, fewer distractions, and more time to… observe.’
He took another sip of the broth, savoring its warmth.
The peppery flavor seemed to sharpen his thoughts, like liquid determination.
“Thank you, mysterious soup-tea,” he whispered to his cup, “for nourishing my ambition.”
Somewhere across the room, a student sneezed.
The storm rattled the windows again, yet, Lucien felt a calm within as he sat quietly with a warm cup of soup in his hands.
He drained the last of his cup and stood, sliding his chair back with a faint scrape that barely rose above the storm outside.
As he left the hall, the wind howled through the courtyard doors, catching the edge of his coat and flaring it behind him like a banner.
His footsteps steady with the weight of determination.
***
Lucien had no idea how he’d ended up wandering the labyrinthine hallways of Twilight Crown
Academy at one in the morning, coat collar up, candle in hand, looking like the world’s most underqualified ghost.
He had finished his midnight meal, instead of returning to bed like any sane person, he had convinced himself that now was the perfect time to scout out the ‘night classes’ he had heard about.
After all, if Lumiere really was a top-tier healer, she might attend evening lectures, private study sessions, or theology gatherings for those dedicated enough to sacrifice sleep for knowledge.
That logic had made perfect sense when he left the cafeteria.
It made less sense now, half an hour and ten hallways later.
***
The first room he stumbled across bore the plaque: “Professor Mirtha - Comparative Mycology: Spiritual Applications of Fungal Spores.”
Lucien had peeked in.
Inside, a group of students in mushroom-patterned robes sat in a perfect circle, inhaling glowing dust that hung thick in the air while chanting what sounded like “O magnificent mold, we thank thee for decay.”
Lucien closed the door as silently as he could.
“Yeah… definitely not the kind of theology I am looking for…”
***
The next door: “Department of Aquatic Necromancy: Reanimation Practices for Marine Organisms.”
He cracked it open out of morbid curiosity, just enough to see a dozen half-skeletonized fish floating in glowing tanks while a professor waved a staff shouting, “Swim toward enlightenment!”
Lucien shut the door faster than humanly possible.
“Nope. Absolutely not.”
***
Third attempt: “Applied Curse Linguistics.”
He stepped in cautiously, only to be greeted by a board full of obscene words in five dead languages and a student crying as their pen tried to stab them.
Lucien slowly backed out.
“You know what, I respect the choices, but I’m good.”
***
The next two were no better.
One was “Experimental Alchemical Cuisine”, which, from the screams echoing down the hallway, had apparently just discovered sentient soup.
The other, “Intermediate Summoning,” featured a door hastily barricaded from the outside with warning signs that read:
“DO NOT OPEN - IT KNOWS YOUR TRUE NAME.”
Lucien didn’t need any further clarification.
He made a mental note to walk faster.
***
By the time he reached the end of the corridor, he was beginning to wonder if this entire “night class” thing was a hazing ritual for new students.
His feet ached, his shoulder stung, and his candle had burned so low that the wax dripped down his fingers like hot tears.
Then, finally, salvation appeared.
A modest brass plate read: “Professor Taiga - Automaton Theory and Design.”
Lucien blinked.
Then read it again.
‘It sounds… normal.’
‘Sane, even.’
No mention of fungus cults, undead seafood, or demonically self-aware linguistics.
He vaguely remembered this one being on his recommended elective list, something that he apparently showed promise in, going by his data that the academy personnel had from the entrance exams.
Lucien nearly wept with relief.
“Finally,” he breathed, pressing a hand over his heart, “a class that doesn’t sound like a circle of hell.”
There was light under the door, and faint murmuring, proof that someone was inside.
Encouraged, he pushed on the handle.
The door didn’t budge.
He frowned, gave it a firmer push, and it creaked grudgingly, as though resisting the very idea of letting him in.
Lucien braced himself, pushed harder, his shoulder flared with pain, but finally, with a grunt and one last shove, the door swung open.
And then…
Lucien froze.
The scene before him could only be described as religiously wrong.
A massive metal humanoid, easily twice the size of a man, was suspended midair, arms outstretched and bolted to a steel cross-like frame.
Its chest cavity was open, cables spilling out like intestines of copper and tubing.
Arcane circles pulsed faintly beneath it, glowing a sickly white-blue light that threw long, dancing shadows across the room.
From somewhere, Lucien couldn’t tell where, a haunting symphony played.
The kind of orchestral, unholy music that might accompany the apocalypse: organs groaning, flutes wailing, and a chorus of voices that did not sound human.
And below the crucified automaton stood a man.
If he could even still be called that.
His lab coat was singed, fluttering wildly from unseen gusts of energy.
His hair stood upright as if lightning itself had chosen him for a throne.
Tools, scrolls, and scraps of metal littered the floor around his feet.
Every movement was jittery, twitching, like a puppet trying to dance to music only it could hear.
His eyes gleamed with feverish focus as he manipulated dials, pulled levers, and muttered something that might have been a prayer or a curse.
Sparks leapt from machine to machine, illuminating his silhouette like a storm given human form.
Lucien could only gape, hand frozen on the doorframe.
His mind scrambled to process what he was seeing.
The murmuring he had heard earlier?
Not students.
Just the sound of reactors hissing, gears grinding, and the faint hum of something alive but not alive.
And then.
“YES!” the man suddenly shouted, voice booming with manic triumph.
He raised both hands toward the heavens, his wild hair flaring with sparks.
“YES, IT IS ALIIIIIIIIIIVE!”
The symphony swelled to a crescendo as lightning arced across the automaton’s frame, its body twitching violently, eyes flickering open with a metallic clank!
Lucien backed up until his spine hit the door, jaw slack, candle trembling in his hand.
“...I take it back,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Bring back the mushroom cult.”
And somewhere deep inside the building, thunder rolled, answering the mad professor’s laughter as the Automaton twitched once more, its voice crackling like broken glass.
Lucien swallowed hard, his brain silently screaming only one coherent thought:
‘I am never trusting a normal-sounding course name ever again.’
